


For the Kingdom

by graywhatsit



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gen, Hat Films, kind of, so many headcanons tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Northern King's heir is about to be born.</p><p>He wants to make sure his child will be the greatest ruler the world's ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. birth

**Author's Note:**

> a tumblr prompt by mwolf0epsilon!
> 
> slow to start, but we'll get there

In the 14th year of the Northern King’s reign, his wife, the Queen, came to be with child. They were to be the first born, and therefore, the true heir upon the King’s death. This was the custom, and had been done for countless generations before– had happened just years before, with the King’s own father and his funeral, being given back to the frozen land he’d poured his heart and soul into.

    Where else should one go but back to the land they called their own?

    The King knew this, of course; upon his death, his child– whatever they happened to be or chose to be in the future– would take over for himself. He was not afraid of death. After all, he had many long years ahead of him.

    His subjects wouldn’t say it was his youth that would keep him as King for long.

    He wasn’t an excessively cruel King, but neither was the man compassionate in any sense of the word. He pushed forward with expansion, with conquest, with innovation… all at the expense of the laborers and commoners under him. Little was done to help those outside of noble birth or high social and economic standing, no matter the outcry or plea. Foreign dignitaries had come merely once in all 14 years, simply because of the man, himself.

    The icy stare of their ruler was legend, and a hair-trigger temper and a fickle streak several miles wide made sure that no one ever stayed for long. People didn’t speak of their long-missing nobles, preferring instead to forget about them. The King had ears and eyes everywhere, after all, and they may just end up the same way.

    Afraid of the King’s forces, other kingdoms kept trade open, no matter his treatment of diplomats and servants. No sanction or embargo was placed on goods needing to be imported, and with resources aplenty and allies– however born of fear said alliance was– he and his kingdom grew in strength. Thousands, if not millions, wished for an end to his reign.

    Their excitement at the announcement of the child was palpable, though for reasons no one inside the royal family thought. This child may just be the end to their days living in fear, under a fickle and ruthless King. Perhaps, if they were lucky enough, they may turn out to be the opposite of their father– warm, compassionate, focused on the betterment of the people than of prestige and simply wielding power.

    The Golden Child. The one to bring spring to the frozen North, as the more poetic would say, crowded in tiny rooms, huddled around a central hearth, with the audience hanging on their every word.

    “One day,” they would say in hushed tones, hoping the crackle of the flames would keep the ears of the King busy, “they will come. The King will die, the ground and the kingdom will thaw, and we’ll be greater than we ever were.” They would nod slowly, take a long swallow from their mug, allowing the spiced drink within to chase away the cold of winter already settling in their fingertips, despite the fire. “Any day now. They will come.”

* * *

    Merely two months after the winter solstice, after the start of a new year– the 15th of his reign– the King’s child was born.

    His wife had gone into labor quickly and without much warning at all; one moment, she had lain in their bed in the chambers, kept warm by a blazing fire fed at all hours of day and night, waving off overly-helpful and fairly pushy servants begging for her to stay put, they would get anything she wished.

    She’d never liked that, even before her belly had tripled in size as the spheres the common children played with, rolling along the dusty cobbled streets, getting underfoot and underhoof. Now, it was likely the most irritating part of being with child. She could move perfectly fine on her own and she needed nothing; if she did, she’d get it, herself, thank you very much.

    In the midst of a particularly frustrated rant masked with heavy amounts of forced calm, as much as she could muster, sharp pain rippled through her belly. Before either the Queen or the servant she’d been speaking with had understood, the physician was in the room, her husband bellowing outside the heavy wooden door, and she was in some of the worst pain she’d ever felt.

    That was at the very least half a day ago.

    The Queen was sweaty, in pain, and wholly miserable. Of course, she understood that– in being queen– she would have had to produce an heir at some point. In fact, she’d kind of looked forward to it, at least at one point. A new life, a union of herself and her husband.

    She would never, not once, no matter what anyone told her, do this ever again.

    She hated pushing, she hated the feeling of her belly stretching and twisting as the child wriggled to get out, she hated being sweaty and out of breath, and she _hated_ everyone being in her way, telling her horribly inane things that anyone could see she was _trying_ to do, but was a little preoccupied trying not to strangle them.

    When the child was finally born and freed of all of the viscera surrounding them, the Queen tilted her head back onto the pillows. The servants weren’t quite sure they’d ever heard a prayer of thanksgiving mixed with so many terrible curses, but they kept their thoughts to themselves.

    And to the child.

    He– “it’s a son, my Queen!”– wasn’t crying very loudly at all. More like sniffles and quiet sobs, not the screaming hoarseness the physician remembered from the King’s own birth. His heart was normal, beating in his chest, and his lungs were clear and working with no complications. He just simply wasn’t bawling.

    They were startled by the arrival of the King; rather than wait for any one of the servants to come to fetch him, he’d burst in the door, himself, upon hearing the assignment of his child.

    “May I see him? I want to see my son.”

    They blinked, then glanced at one another. The nursemaid holding the boy, a petite woman with dark hair, spoke up. “Surely his mother must–”

    “I don’t care,” the Queen responded, head still tilted back towards the ceiling, eyes closed and very much relaxed now that she wasn’t trying to push out a baby. Understandably. “He can see him first, give me a moment.”

    After another wary look, the nursemaid very carefully handed over the child, shushing his quiet gurgles and wrapping his swaddling blanket around him a little tighter, just to keep in the warmth. “Careful, hold his head up– there.”

    Everyone knew babies were tiny, and it was no surprise to the King. The surprise came at just how easily the boy settled with his father, with no fuss either vocally or physically, and he just looked… odd. Smaller than he should have been. Oddly pinkish-blue where he wasn’t dark like his parents, with a tiny head and weak limbs.

    The King’s apprehension must have shown in his face, because the child was quickly whisked away, over to his mother, the other nurses crowding him to answer his questions.

    Yes, he was born on time.

    No baby is perfectly shaped when born.

    Of course he’s tiny and weak– he was only just brought into the world!

    Still, as the King was removed from the room once again in order to give the new mother and child some bonding and privacy, he couldn’t help but wonder if his son would ever be a King.


	2. help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child grows up.
> 
> The King needs options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait!

Christopher– _Chris_ , he always insisted– was still far from kingly, even though he was merely seven years old.

    His father watched him, worry creasing his face and speckling his hair with silver and white, every day. Through lessons, through play, through every birthday and solstice celebration– Chris grew no more big and strong, no more commanding.

    No more like himself.

    Slightly shorter and skinnier than his peers, with big brown eyes and amazingly floppy hair of the same color, Chris looked more like a target than a King. His demeanor didn’t help matters, in all honesty.

    Though he took quickly to (gentle) hand-to-hand combat, there was next to no fire behind his attacks, and he was more likely to defend and counter than fight at all. Diplomacy seemed to be his way, rather than sheer force; instead of ordering the servants of the royal family, he bartered, countered, traded. He’d agree to help with some of the duties– even do things for himself than allow his own stewards to do them for him, which seemed far below him to the king– in exchange for an extra hour outside, or even an extra treat.

    Or, simply because he could.

    He was an immensely clever child, which was something his parents took great pride in, but he wasn’t the cunning, calculating ruler his father was. He learned for the joy of learning, preferred studying of inventions and innovations rather than strategy and the ways of conquest. It simply didn’t interest Chris. Nothing of the sort– from actual fighting to recruitment and preparation– he cared for, and even hunting was out of the question.

    This showed upon his sixth birthday, upon his father’s return from a trip to the slowly-melting ice floes a two day trip from their castle. It was a tradition, more a sport for the nobles than out of necessity, and the King returned with his son’s birthday present in his possession.

    Chris had looked positively green– at least, in the lighter patches of skin on his dark face– as he stared down at the tusk in his hands. Roughly a foot and a half long, gleaming creamy white, with an oddly jagged base and sharp tip… Chris swallowed, then looked up at his father.

    “Th-thank you,” he just managed, his voice small, before turning to go to his chambers. He did not come out for his birthday meal, nor for his lessons the next day.

    The King knew where he kept it, thanks to his questioning of one of the boy’s servants– upon his study table, regarded reverently and with the utmost respect, almost as if worshipping it, but not quite.

    As if he were apologizing for what his father and his men had done.

    This behavior concerned the King– not just the care and attention given to the tusk, but his reluctantcy toward cruelty, toward conquest, toward war. His meeker nature, smaller stature… his son was not anywhere close to being the King he needed to be upon his father’s passing, and all signs suggested that he never would be.

    His wife listened to him rave about it for quite some time one night, lying in their bed and focusing upon a book in her hands, rather than watch him pace the floor and mutter.

    “If you’re so worried about it,” she started upon a lull in his ranting, “why don’t you go ask the Witch?”

    The King paused, mid-step, mouth open as if he were going to continue in speaking his concerns. He closed it, then opened it again, almost like a fish, before he spoke, turning to face her. “The Witch?”

    The Queen sighed, doing her best not to roll her eyes. She did love the man, and he could be very cunning, but sometimes… “Yes, the Witch. The Witch of the Woods? They divine, they prophecize, they cast spells. If anyone can help you with our son, it’s them. Go to see them, if you think you must.”

    The Witch. What a wonderful idea– the king didn’t particularly care for magic and such crafts, finding them to be pure trickery and falsehood, but force wasn’t creating the heir he required. If anything, he could find what he needed to do there. “Why do you say they?”

    His wife considered him for a moment before turning back to the well-worn pages. “Because that is what they prefer.”

    And that was that.

* * *

    There were no woods as far north as the castle was– it sat on the tundra, close to where the night and day each dominated their fair share of months, refusing to give way to the other. In order to find the Witch, the King needed to leave immediately, the next morning.

    It was a long, exhausting trek. A good quarter of his men were sent back for various reasons, and even he was beginning to think his wife had done this in order to get him out of the castle and away from his thoughts for a while.

    She was always doing that.

    Finally, however, just past the southern border of his own lands, they came upon a particular woodland. It looked the same as any other they had passed by and through on their way, but the more the King looked…

    The trees surrounding his company seemed to crowd them, the eyes on the bark of the silvery birch seeming to follow their every motion. The deeper their horses took them, the colder and darker the world around them seemed to become.

    It had been morning when they’d reached the copse.

    An uncomfortable tingling sensation raced up the King’s spine, spreading out thinly over his skin, causing every hair to rise as if to keep out the cold. Or threaten, as a terrified animal does. Ice creeped through his veins, setting his teeth chattering, more sets around him rattling like walking skeletons or the bare, dead branches of trees in midwinter. It settled in his heart, finally, sending a bolt of pure fear through the ruthless, stone-cold King.

    “S-sire? Perhaps we should…” He turned his head, spotting his men gripping their reins with white knuckles, eyes wide and darting around the forest nervously. A few looked mere seconds from turning tail. The horses, however, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

    He almost agreed with him, grip tightening for a moment in order to turn his own mount away, then paused, looking through a gap in the trees. In the slightly misty morning air, he could see the vague outline of a dark, squat house, more a shack, with windows like eyes– glowing orange and almost alive, menacing.

    None of them had seen it before.

    “There.” With little more than a shake of the reins held in his hands, the King was off, leaving the unnerved men to follow.

* * *

    The Witch was unlike anyone he’d ever encountered before.

    His men stood outside, upon their request, which they were all too happy to take– whatever was going on in this forest, they would face if it meant not being in the same room as the Witch.

    The individual was small, even pixieish, though the air they gave off was far from it. Faintly curly auburn hair grew long on the left side of their head, framing a round face with sharply arched brows and dark, calculating eyes. The right side was close-cropped, adding an artful, almost fashionable asymmetry in accordance with their ill-fitted soldier’s plainclothes.

    For a moment, the King wondered if they’d been stolen.

    “Not stolen. What do you take me for?” The corner of the Witch’s mouth twitched upwards in a pleased smile at the King’s surprise, and they quickly turned with a graceful spin to fling gathered herbs into a pot of boiling water. “I steal nothing. Tea?”

    He was still a touch off-guard, both from the sound of their voice– surprisingly gravelly, almost like mossy tree bark– and the fact the Witch had known his thoughts, and the King nodded. Before he knew it, the cup was in his hands.

    “And don’t worry,” they added, sitting at the table with him, “it’s no different to what anyone else drinks. I promise.”

    That was certainly reassuring. “You know my questions, but do you know–”

    “Yes.” They trailed a short, slim finger over the rim of their cup, the steam slowly decreasing until they took a sip. “You are the King of the North, though that requires no precognition– you can see it in your bearing, in the men you brought with you. The seal is everywhere.”

    His grip tightened around his still ferociously steaming mug. “And why I’ve come here?”

    The Witch paused. “Perhaps. But if I’m to help, I need to hear the request. These things have their own rules, you know.”

    Tricks and lies have rules? It’s what he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. “My son is not becoming the King he needs to be. He is far from fearless or strong, and the kingdom needs him to be. They cannot have a soft ruler, and they are already beginning to whisper about him. What can I do to change this?”

    “Hm.” The Witch stared down into their drink, bringing it up to take a larger gulp. For several moments, they watched and drank, frustrating the King to no end.

    “Tea leaves?”

    “I haven’t done that in ages.” They smiled, almost wistful. “But no. Simply thinking.” They drummed their fingers in a light rhythm against their mug, sounding almost like the pitter-patter of rain on a thatched roof. “I can help you.”

    He sat up in his seat instantly. “You can? How? What do you need?”

    “A favor, but not from you. Your son.” Finally, the Witch set the cup aside, returning their gaze to the King. “I summoned a greed demon, once. Years ago. As retribution for my mistake, I was saddled with…” Their lip curled in disgust, spitting out the next words as if they were sharp bits of broken glass, lodged in their throat. “A _son_ , as well. An abomination, really.”

    The King looked for a moment, confused, before a chorus of shrill screams broke his concentration. The man stood, whipping his head to stare out the frosted windows, where his men stood.

    “There he is now.” Their voice hadn’t risen in the slightest, and yet it could still be heard over the cacophony of horses, men, and _something_ else outside. “Being what he is, he could pose a substantial threat to your kingdom, and many others, as well. When they are both of age, in eleven years or so, I believe, send him.” They tilted their chin up, regarding the ruler with a steely stare. “Your son will kill the beast looming over the land, and be held as the most fearless ruler of all the ages.”

    “A-and you can see this?” The King stuttered, still slightly distracted by the continuing sounds of the world outside. “He will do this?”

    “He will.” Another, more amused smile curled on their face. “And don’t worry. Your men weren’t harmed. Most likely.”

    Sputtering his gratitude, the ruler placed his tea on the table and rushed out the door, hoping to aid his company, or at least see what his son would be up against. The door shut behind him with a wave of the Witch’s hand.

    Curiously, they swirled their mostly empty cup, allowing the dregs to swish around the bottom and sides, before finally tilting it up. They frowned thoughtfully at the image presented; not a particularly good omen, but no future is the truth until it has become the past.

    There was still a chance for both of them.


	3. lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris' princely lessons ramp up, and he's none too happy about it.

If Chris didn’t like his lessons before, he _really_ didn’t like them now.

    Maybe it was a part of growing up– something he also wasn’t very fond of– but everything just seemed to get more… violent.

    Before his father went on that big trip south, he was allowed to learn a lot of things he liked to learn about. Normal things, the things the other children he interacted with (all children of nobles, mind) learned: history, arts, sciences. Even those really weird ones about other countries and focusing on their weak points were bearable, and he didn’t mind learning to control his body and mind together when he took his fighting arts lesson.

    Those were all fine, but now…

    Upon his father’s return, things really changed. He’d watched them come in the city gates from his vantage point in the castle, using the telescope he’d begged his science tutor to let him borrow. He’d seen them come and go before, but there was no victory upon their faces– his father looked stone-faced, and the soldiers behind him were tightly packed together, shell-shocked and staring off, looking like any moment they may leap from their horse’s back and into the river canals weaving through the streets.

    Terrified. Weren’t soldiers meant to be brave and strong all the time?

    The King wouldn’t speak to him when he ran up, bubbling over and babbling his questions, like the stream he liked to play around in the gardens. He simply looked Chris over, face unreadable but still far from happy, and dismissed him with a short sentence. After that, he’d called his mother, his tutors, and his caretakers into a room to speak with them, shutting the heavy wood door shut with a decisive and vaguely ominous thunk.

    That had been the last he’d seen of any of them for a good few hours, and he spent the time held up in his room, unable to get closer to the meeting room than a few feet without being shooed away by guards or the one servant told to keep an eye on him.

    He brought him treats and played games with him, so it wasn’t all bad. Besides, his name was Chris, too!

    After that day, he had very little choice in what he studied. Of course, Chris studied the basics– he needed to, he wasn’t at the age where specialized training began quite yet, and as future King, he needed to be well-educated. Whatever free time he may have had, however, was no longer free; what was once playing in the gardens or pouring over blueprints and tinkering with tools he was just starting to understand quickly became weapons training, defense training. His father had never cared for magic, but a court mage had been hired specifically to give him basic instruction.

    By the time he became a teenager, his face just starting to become a little inflamed with blemishes, his voice deepening little by little, cracking all the way, he knew more of swords and armor than the pages and squires he was friends with. The court mage could teach him no more about enchantments or potions, and yet pushed him to hone those skills, things he’d never really wanted to accomplish in the first place.

    Chris even confronted his father, at least once a month, before he held court.

    “Why do I have to do this? I know how to fight, I get it, I just–”

    The King arched an eyebrow, watching his son. “Are you whining, Christopher?”

    “ _Chris_ , and _no_ , I’m not.” He huffed and crossed his arms, in the way teenagers do. “I just don’t get the point. No one else is learning these things!”

    “And you are no one else. You are the future King, and a King needs to know how to take care of his own.”

    For the first few times, that was the end of the entire discussion. After that, he grew smarter, more aware. If his father wouldn’t give him answers, maybe others could; Chris may not have been there in his father’s childhood, but he was older than himself. Maybe he’d know something.

    “I don’t know your King training shit, Trott,” he’d said, sprawling over the garden grass, voice equally as lazy and slow, accented. “Your dad probably has his reasons. Now, do you want to cast stones or not?”

    That was the last time he saw Chris, now he thought about it.

    “Did you train like this?”

    “I learned exactly what you did, Christopher.” His father’s voice was edged with growing frustration; his son’s constant, relentless questioning was whittling away the time he needed to compose himself before dealing with his noblemen. “Every King does.”

    “But Katie told me her mom said–”

    “And you will believe what she says, and not my own words?” There was more than frustration, now– slight teasing, and Chris looked down and away, shuffling his feet, face growing warm. “Don’t believe everything you hear, son.”

    He didn’t see Katie around after that.

    Still, he couldn’t help but wonder about his father’s advice. He shouldn’t believe everything he heard… did that advice apply to his father’s words, as well?

* * *

    Everyone noticed that, after Chris’ disappearance and Katie’s sudden distance, the prince became very much, well… depressed, in a sense. Not in the way of wasting away, nor to the point of insomnia or injury or even screaming during the night.

    He just kind of drifted, listless, not quite paying attention to his lessons or what his caretakers said to him. It took extra effort to get him to complete assignments, or even to get out of bed or bathe himself.

    He had a few things to say about it, himself, after weeks of seeing their sympathetic, slightly confused and amazingly helpless faces, of hearing comments about his various new habits, asking if he was alright, if he needed to see a doctor. Of course, that took effort Chris didn’t exactly have, and so he stayed silent, allowing his frustrations and slight amusement to build up inside.

    He wasn’t _depressed_ – he was _lonely_.

    His tutors were teachers and only there to do their jobs; his caretakers had known him since he was in diapers, which was a shade too mortifying to be a basis of friendship; the pages and squires (and now some of them _knights_ ) he knew were busy in barracks, with training and setting off to conquer and keep new land in line. His father and mother were as distant as always. The children of the nobles were also distant, but in a different way: respectful to his face, with nasty whispers and comments born of fear behind his back.

    As he’d been banned from leaving the castle grounds after an incident when he was fourteen– it was a long story, but involved an ostrich and some old blueprints he’d found in cleaning out one of his trunks– there were no friends to be made there. Besides, the same fear was present amongst commoners, as well.

    His isolation and emphasis on training for god-knows-what– he wasn’t quite sure what it was for, but he knew for a fact it wasn’t simply “King training”– had definitely taken their toll, and it truly wasn’t hard to see. The solution to this problem came from an unlikely source, and was, at first, dismissed as nonsense by the King. You couldn’t _make_ a person, and especially not force them to do your bidding afterwards.

    When he saw his son, however, skinnier than usual, clammy and blotchy and shaking… well, anything was worth a shot. He allowed the court mage to test his idea.

    It took three days of work, and the King was just as skeptical upon seeing his handiwork, but it _looked_ human enough, and responded kindly– though a little loudly– when spoken to. It would suffice, he supposed; he simply requested to be their upon its meeting with his son.

    Chris looked just as confused and distrustful as the King had. The creature was taller and stronger than he, perhaps even moreso than his father, and looked… well. They– he supposed they, he wasn’t quite sure what they preferred or had been created as– wore light plated armor over standard plainclothes, as the guards of the castle did, and their features were entirely human.

    The rest, however.

    Every inch of them, from thick yet close-cropped hair, to stubble, to skin, to limbs… everything was made of solid, cool to the touch _stone_. Marbled in appearance– actually marble, he almost laughed upon hearing that particular fact– and not gleaming white as the statues and fountains around the gardens, but shades of blue, gray, and white. Intensely icy blue stone took place in their eyes, giving them a pupil-less, unnerving gaze.

    Whatever fear he might’ve felt at the sight of him quickly melted away when he spoke.

    “You look like shit, mate.”

    It got the first spark of life– a small laugh– in a good week. “You don’t look much better, mate. I’m Chris Trott.”

    The creation grinned a shining white smile of teeth a touch sharper than they should’ve been. “Ross. Nice to meet you.”

    When they’d departed, talking about something or other the King didn’t quite catch or understand, the court mage got an ample sum as reward.

    As it was more than he’d gotten since the boy had mastered what he’d had to teach him, all of five years ago when he was twelve, he took it graciously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm nat and i put cameos everywhere


	4. king's training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris starts new lessons, and the King isn't doing so well.

As Chris’ 18th birthday approached, the entire kingdom, not the just the castle and surrounding city, was abuzz. He was a man now, according to law, and just the kind soul many had been hoping for.

    If he ever left the castle– which was a bit more rare, these days– he’d be approached by any number of people, young or old, rich or poor. Each would congratulate him, grasping at his hands as though he were a lifesaver, wish him well, and he’d do his best to graciously and wholeheartedly thank them. He couldn’t miss the odd glimmer of hope in their eyes when they moved on, but chalked it up to nothing.

    He didn’t really think he’d seen anyone so excited for a birthday before.

    As the time approached, though it was the middle of winter and the time when most others stayed inside as often as possible, growing a fraction more sedentary and either fatter (if you were somewhat well-to-do) or far thinner (if you were anyone else), he was busy. He’d been busy for the past ten years or so, but this was to a far greater extent.

    Rather than focus on his classical education, near every waking moment of Chris’ existence focused on one thing and one thing only: his “King training”. The quotation marks were practically audible whenever he mentioned it to Ross, often with a wrinkled nose or frustrated, weary grumble.

    “This is _all I do_ ,” he would complain during a spare moment, which was really the wee hours of the morning when he was meant to be sleeping. His body still ached and groaned from yesterday’s swordplay. “I _mean_ that! I don’t think I’ve touched a book in a _year_!”

    His marble guard hummed from his spot on Chris’ bed, looking over a scroll in his hands. “Most people would be happy with that. What’s wrong with you?” Ross didn’t need sleep, being made of stone, but he’d taken up residence at Trott’s insistence. He’d managed to pass it off as extra protection for the prince, considering how he was the sole heir.

    And he was really good to talk to, even at times like this.

    Chris swiped the paper, rolling it up and swatting Ross over the head with it, as if he were scolding a misbehaving dog. Though he hardly felt pain, or much of anything, his friend ducked away.

    “Nothing’s wrong with me! There’s more to the world than fighting.”

    “Says the man who just hit his best friend.”

    He rolled his eyes at Ross’ wounded expression. “It’s paper, you’ll be just fine. What even is this, anyway?” He considered his makeshift weapon, then unrolled the crinkling yellow parchment.

    “Something I might’ve intercepted on the way to the kitchen. Or I might not have.” He grinned at Chris with his oddly sharpened teeth. “Don’t worry, it’s not _that_ important.”

    “Not important?” Chris finished reading the scratchy script on the page before looking up to his friend, incredulous. “My dad is sick, you asshole!” With something he wasn’t quite sure of– the paper didn’t exactly specify.

    “Well, considering people were still heading up to your dad’s chambers with soup and those weird medicines from the physician, I think everyone still knows.” Ross shrugged and took the paper back. “He’s a tough old badger; you’ve seen him with influenza before.”

    “First, we call it the flu now. Language changes, you need to keep up to date. Second, yeah, I have– when I was little. He’s…” He fell back onto his pillows, still inclined, hands still laying on top of the covers. Before he really knew it, his fingers were twitching, nervously and involuntarily twisting at the thick blankets.

    This was not a good sign. As of late, his mental state had started to become a little more… unpredictable. Far from the depressive episodes caused by loneliness, crippling anxiety would take the young prince at random times, though always at the worst possible moment. Shaking, sweating, even vomiting at the worst of it all. It was prompted, everyone knew, by the excessive stressor that was his training, but the King refused to ease up.

    He needed to calm down, else it grow into an even larger problem. Carefully, Ross reached forward, gently placing his hands right where Chris’ trembling fingers lay. His grip switched from twisting the cool sheets in a stranglehold, holding solid, familiar hands. There was no heartbeat, no warmth, but the cool smoothness seemed to help more than any human touch ever did. Ross, literally, was a rock.

    “Shh.. you’re okay,” he soothed, lightly pulling on the fingers to get Chris to sit up and look at him. “He’s okay, too. He’ll make it– they wouldn’t let him go, even if he wanted to.”

    The prince looked frightened in the dark, only just illuminated by starlight slotting through the narrow windows of the room. The magic used to create his friend had a side effect, a sort of gauge of his energy level: his eyes of pale blue stone glowed, and that was easy to see in the dark.

    “There, see?” Chris’ breathing was starting to slow, heart a little more steady and less fluttering as he watched, grip slackening slightly. Ross moved his hold from Chris’ hands to his shoulders, shaking him lightly, reassuring and affectionate. “We can see him in the morning. You’ll see, he’s perfectly fine.”

    Perfectly fine. Letting out a slow, shaky sigh, Chris nodded. Raising his hands and squeezing Ross’ fingers as a silent thanks, he let go to allow them to both be settled once again. He’d have proof of that in the morning.

* * *

    His father wasn’t perfectly fine.

    He didn’t look like he was _dying_ , at the very least– which eased the slowly building nerves threatening to choke him before he’d even seen the King– but he didn’t look anywhere near his prime anymore.

    Now in his fifth decade of life, what hair the man had on his head was more than streaked with silver, to where he looked as though he was coated in frost, or perhaps icing sugar from one of his favorite pastries. Chris could remember his father from when he was a child, standing tall and broad, strong under the layer of fat all of his family– even himself, despite his otherwise small frame– seemed to carry with them.

    The muscle was gone, overnight, it seemed, leaving him hunched over in his seat, gripping a cane with dark, rough fingers. His eyes didn’t seem as sharp and calculating as before, staring through whomever came to visit him.

    The man everyone had been so terrified of, had dreamed of rebelling against but never once dared try, had wished would pass so that his son, their supposed savior, would come to power, for over thirty years had just… gone, leaving a tired, sick man in his place. The King wasn’t dying.

    It seemed like he was already dead.

    When Chris had first woken up, twisted up in blankets with a bright light angled just perfectly to shine directly into his eyes, Ross half on the floor in a position that could not be comfortable in any capacity, he’d decided that– no matter what anyone said or did to him– he was going to stay with his father and maybe get some answers for once.

    Ross saw his fingers twitching as he stared at his father, looking not at but through the documents spread before him, and gently guided him out into the training yard without either of them saying a word to the ailing ruler.  

    This was a far better use for nervous energy, really. Chris hated it, but throwing himself into swordplay– why they wanted him to work with an unbalanced sword rather than a proper one today was beyond him– was easy. He didn’t have to think about anything beyond parrying, jabbing, twisting and keeping his feet right where he was meant to in order to be completely and utterly centered.

    Focusing on his body rather than his mind was the best thing he could do.

    In order to do that, however, he needed to let go entirely, and some higher reasoning was necessary in training; after all, he was only practicing, and his trainers could do without injury, thank you very much. Ross, being made of immensely durable rock, gladly stepped in for them. He’d picked up a bit whilst watching and practicing with the rest of the guard– surely it’d be enough for now.

    He did in long distance weaponry, as well, being the fleeing target ducking and weaving around barricades as Chris took aim with traditional longbows and the new crossbows fashioned for the armies. A flint-headed arrow did catch his cheek, sending a shower of sparks onto a patch of straw, but he stomped it out quickly enough as Chris received his praise. The prince simply notched another arrow.

    Every hand-to-hand sparring match ended with the stone soldier on the ground, flat on his back with Chris’ knee against his chest. He excelled here: a flurry of twisting dodges and quick, lightning-fast blows to the (heavily padded) guard, confusing Ross with his speed and swiping him off his feet with a simple low sweep. Ross never learned to watch out for that one.

    Throughout every last hour of the work, no expression crossed the prince’s face. He was stoic, settled into this space where he didn’t have to think about what was happening to his father or anything else. He could work out his nerves and not have to say a word– if he did, it would all come spilling out too fast for him to really catch his breath.

    Finally, though, as the sun set and his trainers decided that was enough for the day, a smile crossed his face, and he pulled his marble friend into a half hug. “Thanks, mate,” he mumbled into his leather chestplate, before pulling back a touch to thump the heel of his hand against his back in an affectionate pat.

    “Don’t mention it.” Ross (carefully) returned the pat, glad he could help his friend through it, at least for the day. “Hey, how about we-” He was cut off by a sudden shout from the door back into the castle.

    “All men to the war room! Prince Christopher, to the King’s chambers!”

    Whatever peace may have been present shattered, just with those few sentences. Blood running cold, Chris pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers, attempting to unlace his training armor and hardly bothering with ‘excuse me’ or ‘pardon’, Ross right on his heels.


	5. boiling point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris has a chat with his father.

The halls were busy, surging with servants, guests, and knights alike, and it was slow, difficult going. Like a salmon moving upstream, Chris and his tailing guard were buffeted along the hallways, nudged aside and ungracefully pushed into walls. More than once, he stumbled along the faded vermilion hall runner to plant his face into a wall hanging.

    If they weren’t too busy and/or worried, the pair of them might have laughed his clumsiness and the knights’ pushiness off.

    The current slowed as they reached the stairs to the upper levels of the castle, peeling off of the group in order to reach the King’s chambers rather than reach the war room. That particular move– at least on Ross’ part– earned a rather stern look.

    “What are you doing?” Chris stopped perhaps halfway up the first flight, turning back to look at his marble shadow. “You’re a guard; stop following me and go with everyone else!”

    Ross rolled his eyes, odd to see on a living statue. “I’m _your_ guard, and I’m not a knight. I’m your friend, and since you almost had an anxiety attack the last time you saw your father, I think you need me there.”

    “Did he say ‘Prince Christopher and his bullheaded garden fixture’?”

    “It was implied, Patches.” Reaching up the few steps worth of distance between them, Ross pushed at the prince, turning him and forcing him to continue up the stairs. “Get up there. I’ll carry you, just watch me.”

    Chris huffed but did as told, fully aware of the heavier footsteps behind him as he ascended the staircase, one flight after another. “You can’t call me Patches. You are _literally_ making fun of the color of my skin and that’s awful; you’re an awful person.”

    “You can call me Streaky if you want– it’s a describing word. Aren’t you supposed to be an educated noble?”

    The back and forth bickering actually helped soothe Chris’ nerves on the long journey up to his father. It was normal– affectionate and not once meant to fully offend. Simply another way to ease his anxiety attacks, and Ross knew it perfectly well, occasionally pushing at him to keep going between verbal jabs. Finally, upon reaching the solid oak door set into the dark stone of the wall, they fell silent. The silence, the worry were simply too thick to be cut through with simple, lighthearted banter.

    After a moment of simply watching, as if the door were a beast ready to attack them, and any move or noise would be the one to set it off, however small, Ross leaned in a bit, whispering. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

    Chris could feel his cold blue eyes burning into him, and a ‘yes’ bubbled up in his throat, pushed along by worry and perhaps a bit of bile. Instead, he swallowed, forcing it back down, and squared his shoulders. “Nah, stay here. He’s probably going to try and tell me the facts of life again, and I want to spare you.” The attempt was very weak, but he turned to look at Ross with an assuring nod.

    “No idea what those are, but I’m staying out of human shit if I can.” The marble man reached up a hand to squeeze at his shoulder very lightly, then stepped back towards the top of the staircase. “If you need me?”

    “Yeah.” The prince nodded again, more to convince himself than Ross, then very carefully, very quietly, pushed open the heavy door, shutting it softly behind him.

* * *

    The King’s chambers were very large– even larger than Chris’, nearly twice the size– and often dark, with heavy curtains drawn over shut tight windows, an oil lamp or three ready to bathe the room in a weak golden glow, just enough to see by. An overstuffed bed, as per the Queen’s instructions, rather than her husband’s, sat against the far wall, bedside tables flanking either side. Chris could just see a shape under the rich blue covers, and– clenching his trembling fingers into fists, forcing down his anxiety again– he started for it.

    Some animal skin rug– most likely a bear, if he were to guess, though he couldn’t see for lack of lit lamps– muffled his footsteps as he passed scroll racks, the large wardrobe with a mirror of polished metal. His left hand groped briefly, finally touching the back of a wooden chair, and he hoisted it to place beside his father’s bed.

    The one lamp that was lit sat on a side table, illuminating the shape sat in bed. Propped up by pillows, eyes shut, was the King. He looked no better than he had earlier, when he’d discovered his illness; likely, he thought to himself, he’d looked this way for months. He’d just never noticed.

    “D… dad?” His voice was very soft, not much more than a whisper, but it awoke his father, eyes snapping open to reveal a sharpness and clarity they hadn’t carried in months. Startled, Chris sat back in his seat.

    “Christopher. No longer afraid to see me, are you?”

    His dry laugh sparked a bit of irritation, but Chris let it go. “You asked for me?”

    “Right to the point. Good.” The King placed his hands on either side of himself, pulling into a more upright position to face his son properly. “The knights have been called to the war room, I suppose?” Without waiting for Chris’ answer, he shook his head. “Southern territories under fire– it’s not their business; if I were down there I’d tell them what for–”

    His son interrupted him, confused. “What’s not their business? If people are in trouble, isn’t it their business to protect them?”

    “I wasn’t finished.” The King glared, and Chris, less confrontational boy he certainly was, very nearly flinched, as always. This time, however, he held his gaze, questioning.

    “And I had a question. You know what’s going on, then, and you still say they shouldn’t help?”

    He didn’t ever think he’d seen his father look so _proud_ before. “Of course I do. I know everything going on in my kingdom, and I know they should not waste their time on this. This is not their battle to take.”

    “ _Every_ battle should be theirs to take, at least when it comes to our people!” Chris wasn’t one to raise his voice, especially to his father, but this time it was fear, confusion, worry, and he simply couldn’t help himself. “If they aren’t going to fight whatever it is, who will? You? I don’t think you’re exactly fit to go fighting something terrorizing our kingdom all on your own, or at all.”

    “I won’t– but _you_ will.” The King’s eyes shone with something, strong and determined, but it made Chris uneasy. “This is what you’ve been training for!”

    Chris blinked at him, then leaned in, tilting his head. “ _Training_ for? Excuse me?”

    “Yes, training for! That Witch told me– you’re going to kill that demon spawn they created, bring his head, mount him on a wall.” He looked feverish and wild as his voice increased in volume. “You will save the kingdom from that evil fiend no knight will dare go up against, and they will love you and fear you: King Christopher the Fearless!”

    The prince watched his father speak in a mix of horror and disgust. “You’ve been _grooming_ me? I have spent over half my life working towards something that you cooked up with some random devilspeaker? For what? To become you?”

    “Not me.” The King shook his head. “Not me– better. The greatest King ever to be seen. You will do this, Christopher. The Witch has seen it, and your time has come.”

    Chris stood from his seat, lips pressed into a firm line, rare and hot fury burning inside his chest. “I’ll bring the creature here.” Before his father could say anything, triumph present on his face, he continued. “But I’m not going to kill him.”

    With that, he left his father’s chambers behind.


	6. confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris and Ross go on an excellent adventure.

Ross didn’t have much of a sense of touch– his marble skin was only faintly aware of the feel of things, enough to where he didn’t crush everything in sight or damage himself. Still, he could practically _feel_ the heat coming off his his fuming friend, storming past him and down the stairs.

    “I heard yelling– I wasn’t listening closely,” he amended at Chris’ glare over his shoulder. “What happened? Is everything okay?” He scrambled after, trying his best not to trip over his own heavy rock feet. It was a surprisingly common problem.

    “There was yelling– what do you think?” Chris continued down, virtually stomping on the solid rock under him. Finally, when he noticed he could no longer hear Ross behind him, he stopped, anger cooling a touch at his friend’s expression.

    He didn’t look upset at Chris’ venomous response– just concerned, and he asked again, softly. “What happened?”

    It took him a long while to respond, just trying to find the words to explain– his betrayal, his confusion, his anger, all fighting for access to speech. “He… be glad your creator doesn’t want you following after him. You can do whatever you want.” Chris took a breath, letting it out in a sigh, then gestured for Ross to continue following him.

    “Trott?”

    “We’re going hunting. Don’t worry,” he added, seeing Ross frown, wrinkling his nose, “we won’t hurt them. We’re gonna help the kingdom.”

    Ross still had a lot of questions, but Chris didn’t seem entirely willing to share everything. At least, not yet. “Hm.” He tapped his pale, streaky fingers on the banister as they walked. “Sure you want a ‘bullheaded garden fixture’?” He couldn’t see Chris’ face, but his next words proved he was smiling again.

    “Patches needs Streaky, doesn’t he?” As they reached the bottom floor, Chris latched onto his sleeve, tugging him outside and toward the stables. “Come on, I’ll let you have first pick.”

* * *

    At least the shire horses were strong enough to carry a marble man on their back, though they weren’t too happy about it. Still, after a good meal of grain and a few carrots, Ross’ desired mount was at least willing to cooperate.

    “How does it feel down there?” Ross grinned down at his friend from atop his massive horse once they’d slowed to a trot– no pun intended– just outside the city walls.

    Chris didn’t look up from the map he was currently scanning, using gentle nudges of his feet on his gray’s flanks in order to steer, rather than use his occupied hands. “Like I’ll be faster. Your mount’s a giant, just like you– why couldn’t the mage make you smaller?”

“Rude, making fun of my weight. You’re small enough for the both of us.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does, mate. Are you even paying attention?”

The prince rolled his eyes, as well as the map, and stuffed it into one of his saddlebags.

“If we actually want to get there before this thing causes too much more damage, we’d better hurry. Come on!” Taking the reins in his hands, he gave a firmer nudge to his mount’s sides, allowing them to pick up the pace.

    Ross cried out in protest, then spurred his own horse on. “Do you even know what we’re looking for? You haven’t even told me why _we’re_ doing this!”

    “A creature. A demon spawn– I don’t know.” He shrugged, not entirely sure if Ross could make out the movement as he was jostled by his own horse. “Dad– The _King_ wanted me to, some witch did it.”

    “Isn’t it always a witch?” Ross decided not to press any further, not until they reached their destination. Chris’ tone had turned icy once more, sharp as a sword in bringing up his father, and he wasn’t about to make his friend any more upset than he already was.

    And he wasn’t so sure his attempt at banter really helped, especially when it was whipped away by the wind so quickly.

    For a long while, the pair did desperately need the map Chris kept consulting, slowing his speed just a fraction in order to keep it steady, then marking their progress by the sun. It almost made Ross wish he had some streak of metal in him– perhaps he could be a natural magnet needle, then.

    Upon remembering his volunteer position as a sparring partner, however, he changed his mind.

    Eventually, however, they no longer needed the map.

    Their pointers were burned out wrecks, what had once been towns and farms brought to ruin, crops torn, animals free. The one good thing they saw in it all was that, surprisingly, not a soul seemed to have been _killed_.

    This force was meant to be an evil hellion, focused on the destruction of anyone and everything in their kingdom– at least, as far as Chris had gathered. They’d even stopped upon seeing smoking ruins of wood and stone for the first time, preparing themselves for gore and carnage.

    People were terrified, on their way out of the villages or simply too petrified to move from their town squares or village greens, some even squatting and scavenging in their homes. There were burns, of course, cuts and contusions and even a sprain here and there, but not a single living thing was dead.

    The sight of Chris brought tears to many eyes, and as he and Ross passed around what supplies they could spare, he told them all one thing, down on equal ground with the rest of them.

    “Your aid will come, and you shall never fear again.”

    Then, the two rode off, leaving hope in every town they came across.

    The destination, the whole point of their journey, was found fairly soon after their encounter with the first ruined town. They heard it before they saw it: screams, mixed with creaking and crumbling wood and stone, and the occasional loud blast of something that sounded like cannonfire.

    “Prince Christopher!”

    The one shout, from a particularly eagle-eyed– and quite frightened– villager on the move sent a ripple throughout the rest of the people gathered. Each turned to stare, relief and hope on their faces, some murmuring his name in surprise whilst others shouted for joy.

    For a moment, both men– one of flesh, the other stone– paid no mind to the villagers crowding around them, simply watching the scene before them.

    The entire village was burning, covered in an oddly viscous flame, not unlike lava, and people were still streaming through the gates, singed, but mostly unharmed. They carried children, pets, what they had managed to save from their homes– what almost entirely consisted of the clothes on their backs and nothing else. As each caught sight of his face, they joined the crowd, exchanging whispers and casting awed looks in Chris’ direction.

    A laugh, strangely joyful and faint over the crackling of fire, snapped him out of it, and he knew they’d found what they’d been looking for. “Ross?”

    “Yeah?” The marble man looked nervous, still warily watching the lava-like substance out of the corner of his eye.

    Chris swung his leg over his horse’s back, stepping down onto the hard-packed dirt path. “Give them what we have left, and the same instructions we gave everyone else, okay?”

    “Are you going to try and be a hero?”

    “Why not?” He smiled bitterly at his friend, just for a moment, before turning to head through the village gates. “That’s what I was training for.”

* * *

    The prince followed the faint laughter and sound of cannonfire, carefully evading crumbling structures and burning lumber. Thankfully, the streets here were far from the complex maze that constituted the city surrounding the castle; save for a turn once or twice, it was a straight shot for the creature.

    Which was surprising, to say the least.

    There were no cannons to be found, nor was there a horned red devil as he’d always imagined a demon to be. Instead, the creature… shifted. One moment, he was one thing, and a completely different one the next. One form certainly was a monster– smooth and scaly, similar to an adder, with spidery hands and feet resembling creatures he’d only seen in books, large and hulking, with sharp bear’s claws, raking horns travelling down the spine, a featureless face with large, solidly blue eyes.

    The other… was a man. A boy. His age, if he were to be pressed to choose. Messy in all respects, with rumpled soldier’s plainclothes and similarly tousled auburn hair, nearly as tall as Ross, yet broader, and a surprisingly handsome face. If he were to be completely honest, the man wouldn’t look out of place in the army his father kept, save for a few things.

    The wicked joy in his face at the destruction around him, and the long, thin object in his hand causing the large fireballs… this was it. This was him.

    “Hey!” Instantly he felt foolish– what a thing to say to get your adversary’s attention– but it seemed to work, as the demon turned his head.

    He grinned brightly.

    “Oh, it’s you! Hold on.” He aimed the stick in his hand– probably a wand, honestly– and with a sound like a cannon, a bolt of thick flame shot out, splattering the wall of what was once an inn. “Well, where’s your weapon? I thought you were supposed to kill me, weren’t you?”

    “I was.” Chris raised his hands, showing he had nothing to fight with, that he wouldn’t even if he had brought something. “But I’m not going to.”

    “Too scared? Yeah, I would be, too.” He grinned, tossing the wand from one hand to another, and his form flickered again, showing a head split in half with razor sharp teeth. Chris shivered, but held his ground.

    “You aren’t killing anyone.”

    “… It’s not my style.” He’d paused, however, for a second, and he was back to the human form, uneasy and fidgeting. “But, since it’s you or me-”

    “You were told to do this, weren’t you.” It wasn’t so much of a question as a statement. He was told– both he and his father were– that this was an abomination, ruthless and evil, willing to kill and destroy.

    And yet, here he was, refusing to kill or harm any living thing.

    The demon said nothing, and so Chris continued.

    “I was told to do it, too,” he said, slow and careful, hoping to keep the creature calm. “My dad told me I was meant to. That a witch predicted it.”

    He froze up at the mention of the Witch, a low growl in his throat. His image flickered back and forth, from beast to human, each baring teeth in anger. “Oh, _them_. If I could, I’d..” His fist, both with claws and without, clenched around the wand in his hand.

    “You could.” At the demon’s look, Chris nodded. “You still could. They told us we had to do this– I say fuck them.”

    He hadn’t expected the demon to burst out laughing, but he joined in, a touch nervously. it was nice to hear, as human as anyone else’s laughter. “I didn’t think a prince would have a foul mouth.”

    “I didn’t think a demon would be good looking, but here we are.” The demon grinned at him, but Chris rolled his eyes. “Don’t start, I get enough from my pet rock. You’ll see him,” he added, getting another laugh. “I’m Chris Trott, and I’m not going to kill you just because two old twats told us so.”

    The demon considered him, then put away his wand, stepping closer. The flickering had stopped, and he reached out a hand for Chris to take. It felt human, warm and rough.

    “I’m Av-” He shook his head, wrinkling his nose. “Alex Smith. That human name is much better.”

    They shook.

    “Well, Smith,” Chris started, “let’s go find my garden statue. We have some things to take care of.”


	7. rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio heads back to the castle.

After Smith had gotten over his laughing fit at the sight of Ross (“He’s a _pet rock_!”), and Ross had stopped grumbling and growling at the half-demon (which is really what he was) for calling him such a thing– and for just generally being the cause of all the trouble, to be perfectly honest– they managed to sneak out a side way of the village. It was bad enough that the half-demon was there– finding the prince, their savior, fraternizing with him?

    Besides, they were on a mission.

    Ross kept his distance, still not quite as trusting of Smith as Chris was. Still, since Chris was his friend, after all, he trusted him more.

    “Where are we going?”

    “Well,” Smith said, adjusting his position behind Chris. No room on the saddle meant he was riding directly on the horse’s back, which was not comfortable in the slightest, even as he forced himself to keep human.

    Which also wasn’t very comfortable.

    “You kind of have to go… south as far as the sleer bushes, then west to the grez patch, then go between the rince trees until you reach a fork–”

    Ross gaped over at the demon– half-demon, sorry– still rattling off his directions. “You are making shit up. You have to be– Trott, do you believe him? Why would he take us there?”

    “I don’t know what these are,” Chris said with a large measure of rapidly-dwindling patience, “but the Witch is a twat and Smith wants to take care of them, too, so we are. Can you give us better directions?”

    “No?” Smith sounded a bit annoyed. “Look, this is the way you have to go, so…”

    The prince rolled his eyes, then reached back for his saddlebags, digging blindly until he grasped the map. “Can you at least get us to the forest? You can guide us from there– you know, when you can point things out. And do not burn the mark into my map.”

    Grumbling, he put away his wand. “How’d you know?”

    Chris tilted his head over at Ross, still keeping one eye on Smith.

    Muttering about weird telepathic links and weirder overgrown paperweights, the half-demon simply tapped a spot on the map and let Chris take over.

* * *

    Chris had heard stories, a few times, about soldiers who went through a forest grown on magic. He’d never known _why_ they went– until recently, that is– but it had always frightened him, to the point of never wishing to go there at any point of his life.

    He should’ve known better, honestly.

    For a moment, he hesitated at the entrance, needing a rough shove from Smith, still sat behind him, to get him to move his horse into the woods.

    Soldiers had spoken of being watched, icy cold temperatures and eerily green darkness in the middle of the day, thick trunks closing in and lightning through their veins. Chilling howls of beasts and unearthly creatures, rattling branches like skeletons, and winding, confusing paths that led in circles for hours, even days.

    Magic forests were not benign or even benevolent– they were dangerous, could see into your soul and play tricks on your mind, driving the strongest men home with dampened trousers.

    All of this made him scared to death to even be close to this place, much less in it, and yet… not a thing happened.

    He didn’t feel trapped, nor watched. The light filtering through the surprisingly thick green canopy was dyed pale green, more than enough to see by, and the air was actually pleasantly warm for the end of winter. The horses did not trip or stumble, and the paths were smooth and easy to ride.

    He felt he could live here, if he so wanted. Ross echoed his sentiment, which he hadn’t known he’d said out loud, and Smith hummed behind him.

    “It can see into your soul, you know. Your heart.”

    He looked back over his shoulder to see Smith give a half smile.

    “If things are going so well you could stay, it means you’re both good. Don’t worry about it.”

    The other two were quiet for a moment, before Ross finally broke the silence with a question: “What’s it like for you?”

    Smith shrugged a shoulder, the smile gone. “A normal forest. Turn right, Trott.”

    Chris pulled lightly on the right side of his reins, turning his gray down a path that he wasn’t sure was there before but isn’t going to argue about, and exchanged a look with Ross, who frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the response, either.

    “There.”

    Before the trio sat a squat, dark house– more of a shack– with glowing orange windows that looked more like a pair of eyes, glaring out at them. After all this time, feeling comfortable in the forest, Chris shivered. “Should… do you want to go and…?”

    Mouth pressed in a grim line, Smith leveled his wand at the shack.

    “What about the forest?”

    The half-demon dismissed Ross’ concern with a short wave, keeping his wand steady, trained right at the front door. “The forest always survives. The Witch doesn’t.” With that, a blast of fire, thick and vaguely liquid, shot past Chris’ arm, singing both dark hair and skin and splattering against the door. Quickly putting away the wand, he pulled at the back of Chris’ shirt, who in turn pulled the horse back and down the trail at a quick pace.

    “Can’t they just get out? They have magic, too!”

    Smith was a bit too busy urging them on to address that, not looking back at the growing red flames and thick black smoke behind them, winding through the trees.

* * *

    Upon their return to the castle city, the prince actually left his companions for a short while, allowing them to roam the streets as long as– and he begged Smith to do this– the half-demon didn’t do that flickering shape nonsense.

    He’d look surprised, but agreed, and Chris took off for the castle.

    Ross watched him, a little uncomfortable being left alone with the half-demon but trusting Chris all the same. “What was that look for?”

    “Didn’t think he could see my other shape. I know you could, you’re made of magic, like me.” Smith shrugged, looking at a table of wares in front of the blacksmith’s. He held up a greave for a moment, considering the dark metal, before placing it down. “Maybe he’s got some, too.”

    It would make sense, as he’d had mage training. “So.. is that one your real shape?”

    Smith raised an eyebrow at him. “They’re both real.”

    “Your true one, then?”

    “Both.”

    The marble man frowned, becoming a little agitated. “The disguise?”

    “Both, like I said.” Smith’s slowly appearing grin only annoyed Ross further, and he turned to watch the street, instead.

    “Are you just fucking with me, now, or are you serious?” Before Smith could open his mouth– not that he could see it, but he could tell it was going to happen– he cut him off. “If you say ‘both’ one more time, I’m–”

    He took a step back in order to avoid the battalion of soldiers marching past him, on horseback, on foot, with carriages of supplies. First one went, and then, perhaps five minutes later, another, with the same set of supplies. It wasn’t just the pair of them watching– the entire street was, hanging on the fringes of the street to watch them go past.

    This wasn’t a troop to go and conquer new land or keep old land in check.

    This was aid.

    Perhaps fifteen minutes after the last group had gone past, and the streets had mostly gone back to normal with people shopping and hurrying down cobblestone streets, Chris approached them again, lighter patches on his cheeks flushed, eyes bright, on his gray with Ross’ dark shire and a brand new one, a dark reddish bay. “Okay, I took care of things, and we should probably be ready to go about right this second, yeah?”

    He spoke very quickly,, and both other men watched him with varying degrees of concern. “Trott,” Ross started, slowly, “what’d you do?”

    “Saved the kingdom, didn’t I?” He whistled for the horses behind him, letting Ross take his own reins, then handed the bay’s to Smith. “She’s yours.”  
    “She?”

    Chris frowned at him. “Yeah, and you should respect her. She’s fast, and she’s red, like you. Perfect.”

    “Can you even take these?”

    “Crown prince can do what he wants with his horses.” His grin softened the faux-haughty tone of his voice, and he waited until they were each saddled up before he took off, heading outside the city once again. “Come on!”

    For once, neither of his companions questioned where they were going.

* * *

    In the King’s chamber, the Queen read the letter to her husband three days later, as he lay weaker than ever and unable to see.

    _Mom and Dad,_

_You don’t like that form of address, I know, but that’s how it’s said. Times change. I will not be back in the castle, maybe even the kingdom, for quite some time. I won’t be a king like that, I refuse to be, and I think all of our kingdoms need time to heal from your own reign, dad. You were feared, but that’s not what makes a good ruler._

_A good ruler is kind and cares for their people, does what’s best for every being in their domain. I’m going to learn that, and I can’t do that in that castle with you hanging over me. I’m not alone, don’t worry, but until I’m back and ready to truly be king, someone needs to take care of it._

_Mom– you know what to do. You always did._

_Dad– I’ve said what I needed to say to you before. Goodbye._

_I wish you luck, Mom. Do what’s best for them._

_Your son,_

_Chris– not Christopher_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's the end!  
> thank you very much for reading, and if you have any suggestions or requests, feel free to send me an ask at natspajamas.tumblr.com


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